


lonely movements

by whispered



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Friendship/Love, Growing Old, M/M, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered/pseuds/whispered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The motorcycle ride was my favorite part,” John says.</p><p>Sherlock swallows and he ought to say <i>the murders were my favorite</i> but instead he says nothing because if he did he would say <i>mine too</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lonely movements

_all your acting, your thin disguise_  
 _all your perfectly delivered lies,_  
 _they don’t fool me, you’ve been lonely, too long.  
_ **_dust to dust, the civil wars_ **

\-- 

For Sherlock, it comes and goes in waves. The need and addiction for more and the sparks of electricity that shoot through his brain - short circuiting like lightning during an evening storm. He is not sentimental by any means, but nor is he crazy or anything along such terms. He may be sociopathic by nature but he isn’t that far from human either. He wears a disguise wrapped around his coat and he shields his mind (and heart at that) from any forces on the outside. John is not an exception to that, no one is truth be told, but that is who Sherlock is and nothing can alter such a fact.

However, John is an exception. He’s just not defined quite yet.

\--

It starts on a Sunday morning, with the sunlight dawning behind dusty curtains. He holds a cup of tea in his left hand with his back hunched in all the wrong ways as he flicks through documents on his laptop. John comes down the stairs and Sherlock does not look up. It is not quiet enough but the air keeps the noise at bay just so. 

When John takes his seat the only noise that echoes through the flat is the rustle of newspaper.

John is reading the obits and Sherlock has at least forty-six new emails to go through.

Somewhere between nine-thirty in the morning and nine thirty-six, Sherlock glances up just once and swallows hard before pushing it all away. 

It’s only John.

\--

They’re on a case in Cardiff and John has driven the entire way. Sherlock’s mobile phone is nearing the end of it’s life battery-wise and he has a staring contest with the percentage on the upper left hand corner and the milage-remaining on the GPS. He would urge John to drive faster but there are dark circles under the doctor’s eyes and the stars guide them down a path that they’ve never been before. He does not find the need to appreciate them tonight, but he sees endless trees and shadows of blue and purple over long and thready grass so he sets his phone down.

There is no music playing and the only noise is the sound of dirt being run over and the jingle-jangle of keys hitting John’s knees. They’ve still got a good twenty-some-odd miles to go and Sherlock finds himself far from bored. He thinks it can be blamed on the fact that he’d been lodged in London for far too long but he also knows that such a deduction is far from the truth. He glances at John again, eyes half-lidded, and the doctor is tapping his index and forefinger on the steering wheel.

He knows he appreciates this man, but that’s what you do with friends when they shine in the darkness.

\-- 

They don’t share beds. John peeks by Sherlock’s room after settling down from the endless drive. Sherlock’s shadowed against the dark blackness of the room’s open window. He’s holding a cigarette between his lips, unlit, and John crosses the room in thirteen and a half steps. The cigarette is gone and Sherlock merely shrugs his shoulders.

“The bellhop had it.”

“And now you don’t,” John replies, crushing the cigarette in his open palm. Sherlock glances down and swallows as he hears the _crunch-crunch-crunch_ of tobacco being destroyed. He’s lost in thought when John picks the extra two in his coat pocket. He didn’t see that one coming despite being a consulting detective. 

Sherlock smiles briefly. “Dinner?”

The other two cigarettes are pocketed in John’s back pocket. “Absolutely.”

John is far too interesting for Sherlock’s own good.

\--

Dinner is pleasant and they end up shutting the bar down at nearly three o’clock in the morning. Sherlock hasn’t had too much but he rarely ever drinks so four and a half whiskey’s are more than enough to do him in. The case and work do not begin until tomorrow so for now he bides his time as John leans against him on their walk back to the hotel. The good doctor has had a bit more - three beers, two shots of vodka, and another shot of whiskey to go down. If he’d had any more they’d be heading towards the loo but Sherlock knows how much his blogger can take and he simply breathes in the cool air of Cardiff as they travel back for rest. He also knows that this particular blogger will need roughly eight to nine hours of sleep along with two paracetamol to get through the next day. He can provide both in due time. 

When they’re at John’s room, the doctor fishes in his wallet to find his room key. It takes him a good thirty seconds before the door is flung open and he wipes his eyes against his jackets sleeve. Sherlock urges him to bed and in between the steps John toes off his shoes and peels back his scarf. The room is dark and the bed is soft and Sherlock watches with narrowed eyes as John tumbles into bed. He will ache in the morning and the sunlight will promise a decently-sized headache.

“I’m going to blame this on the whiskey,” John says as he buries his head against the pillow. It’s goose feather and feels oh-so soft. “I never drink whiskey.”

“I bought you that whiskey,” Sherlock replies and steps closer to the window to peer on the outside. 

John huffs and turns his head, watching his counterpart with squinting eyes. The moon is bright but just there is Sherlock and as effortless as it is, he stares at the madman. “I never drink whiskey, Sherlock.”

There are a lot of things that John never does. Twice as much there are many things that Sherlock does not do either. 

However, he does draw the curtains close before he leaves. John’s already snoring when he makes his exit and Sherlock lies awake in his own room until the sun starts to rise.

John’s not all too surprised to find a glass of water and two solid white pills on the bedside table.

\--

Two weeks later they invite Mrs. Hudson up for her birthday to have dinner. John cooks and Sherlock cleans the flat just enough where she is not their housekeeper and instead their friend. John isn’t the best cook but his ability to make spaghetti is spectacular and it’s so much so that Sherlock can’t find a single reason to complain. They do not offer her gifts but John hugs her close before she departs and Sherlock kisses her cheek. They are her boys even though she is not their mother. She is aging and graying all over and even though they never say it, they love her just the same.

The telly is kicked on to some ridiculous horror movie and Sherlock has his laptop on his knees while John sits to his right. John has a glass of scotch in his left hand and he switches between the movie and glancing at what Sherlock is working on. He doesn’t understand it at all but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it. They are quiet, but it is the comfortable sort where they don’t really need discussion. It’s only when bed time nears for John that words are actually uttered.

“You going to sleep tonight?” John asks. The movie has ended and all is dark.

Sherlock hums and flicks between tabs on his laptop. “Probably not.”

“How many days now?”

Sherlock blinks and glances up like he is pulling himself from a tornado to understand the question. He has to think on that one. “Two, maybe three.”

It takes less than four seconds for John to shut the lip of the laptop close and tug it from Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock does not resist nor complain - not with John, _never_ with John. He does, however, watch the curve of John against the darkness as he sets the laptop on the ground. He stares for what feels like hours as John turns his attention away from such a menial task to the elusive detective who is riding the wave of insomnia. “At least a couple of hours, alright?”

John is standing, his back turned on Sherlock and the younger can only swallow like he is drowning. He _is_ drowning. God, he’s really gone.

John doesn’t walk too far because he wants to see Sherlock go to his room. Sherlock knows this and he unfolds himself like he’s securing his place on earth and stands to his full height. Sherlock is right behind John when he speaks up. “Do you ever get lonely, John?”

John blinks, already at the corridor between flat and stairs. “No,” he says honestly, watching Sherlock in the litter of darkness and shadows that invade the flat in the middle of the night. He pauses but says, hands relaxed at his side, “Not with you at the least. Do you?”

Sherlock is not a sentimental man so he only opens his mouth and then closes before going to his room. John watches him go without saying a word more. He knows Sherlock like the back of his hand and he knows what the consulting detective means to say. The door shuts close with a quiet click and John goes to his own room with one heavy step at a time. He’s never really lonely if he had to be completely honest, because, well, Sherlock’s half of his world and thats more than enough to keep him satisfied.

\--

 **14:32**  
Lestrade has a case. Are you off work  
yet or are you still hostage? I can send  
assistance.  
SH  
  
 

**_14:49_ **   
_No I am not off work. No I am not hostage._   
_Please do not send a fire truck like last_   
_time._

  
  
**14:50**  
I thought that an sending an ambulance  
would be highly ironic; ergo the fire truck.   
You had told me that you wanted to be a   
fireman as a child. Didn’t you like riding the   
fire truck to the crime scene?  
SH

 _  
  
 **15:02**_  
 _Sherlock they stuck a plastic red hat_  
 _on me that said “Jr. Firefighter._ ” 

  
  
 **15:02**  
Did you at least keep it?  
SH

  
  
 ** _15:05_**  
 _Definitely. :)_  
  
 

**_15:32_ **   
_Sherlock, a motorcycle really? You’ve got_   
_to be kidding me._

  
  
**_15:35_ **   
_Is that you on the motorcycle?_

  
  
**_15:36_ **   
_Jesus, Sherlock._

  
  
**15:37**  
The rental is charged by the hour, John. We  
have a case to solve! Three murders and one  
in the last forty-five minutes!  
SH  
  
  
 ** _15:38  
_** _Be down in a second._

 

 **15:38 - Unsent**  
:)  
SH

\-- 

They take the tube home because the motorcycle is destroyed and John is half covered in mud. The taxi’s aren’t running this late and Sherlock’s fed up with the Yard. Lestrade offers them a ride, but even John declines after he goes trailing after a hot-tempered detective. The sit at the far end of the tube where it is empty and they line each other side-by-side with just the quiet sound of metal against metal as the background music to a dreary night.

The tube takes at least fifteen minutes to near 221B Baker Street and Sherlock _hates_ the tube. His mobile phone has gone dead and John’s is just the same. The detective _tap-tap-taps_ on his pant leg and John focuses on picking at the mud caked onto his hands. He’ll need a long hot shower and a good cup of tea before he can even imagine the possibility of sleep. Sherlock probably won’t sleep but he’ll have a good crash in the morning which is fine enough for John.

When they’re nearing their exit Sherlock stands first, toeing near the edge of the unopened door. John steps behind him and Sherlock’s back grows tense at the closeness. 

“The motorcycle ride was my favorite part,” John says.

Sherlock swallows and he ought to say _the murders were my favorite_ but instead he says nothing because if he did he would say _mine too_.

He’s still too young to give up being a detective. He’s graying but not that much.

When they are home John takes that hot shower and Sherlock minds to the tea. They sit in silence but it’s the type that reads everything they are not saying. 

Sherlock has little to say and John has a lot but instead they say nothing at all instead.

John sleeps first and Sherlock stays awake until seven in the morning when the doctor departs for work. It’s just another day in the world with far too many in the first place.

\--

“I said sleep,” John says, “but not to sleep all day.”

Sherlock slurs from slumber and blinks away the sleep. There is a heavy weight to the right of his bed and night is just around the corner. He’s slept maybe eleven hours and usually John never has a problem but really, he is right. He glances up at his blogger and the man is smiling so brightly that it counters the sunshine on a summer day. Sherlock moves up to one elbow and sighs heavily. “All I hear you say is sleep, how am I to know the difference?”

“I texted you six times.”

There are no words when Sherlock reaches over to pick up his phone and wince at the brightness of the screen’s glow. He has eight texts in total but he focuses on John’s alone. It’s not that the other two don’t matter, but instead the single fact that revolves around the truth that John matters _most_.   
  


**_10:11_ **   
_I am only slightly jealous that you are_   
_probably still in bed while I am working off_   
_of three and a half hours of sleep. I think_   
_that means you owe me. I will let you_   
_know when I figure out what I want._

**  
_11:45_ **  
_I think I have an idea of what I want. You_  
 _interested to know?_  
  
  
 **_12:55_ **  
_And that, obviously, means that you are_  
 _still asleep. I should have mentioned_  
 _earlier that I wanted you to both sleep_  
 _and eat._  
  
  
 _ **14:36**  
_ _If you’re not going to eat now, fancy_  
 _having dinner? Or at the very least doing_  
 _your part as a decent flatmate and_  
 _ordering at least four stones of food._  
 _I’m starving._  
  
  
 **_18:01_ **  
_Sherlock, are you still asleep?_  
  
  
 **18:22**  
 _I picked up takeaway. Clean two plates,_  
 _two forks, and two cups. This means_  
 _manually wash them - not just spray_  
 _them with water and call it done._

  
Sherlock glances up and looks at John. John doesn’t look lost with life. He actually looks like he’s here, in the present, exactly where he wants to be. Sherlock does not focus on John’s case load of the day nor how many patients he treated with ridiculous illnesses such as the flu. He does not focus on the stubble that is tempting around the edge of his jaw line or how long his hair is getting at the cuff of his neck. He does not focus on the way that John is leaning closely, smile painted on his face like the next Mona Lisa masterpiece. He focuses on the fact that John is here and he supposes that’s all he’s ever really wanted in his life - someone to be _here_. 

“Food’s going to get cold. I got the dumplings you like from four streets down,” John says and shifts to move off his perched position on the bed. Sherlock doesn’t want him to go because he’s too busy trying to figure this all out. It’s not an experiment or some sort of science but it is the great unknown and that is something that has _always_ interested Sherlock. His gut feels heavy and it’s tightening too quick to be blamed on some sort of food poisoning. There are not butterflies but he can read his pulse without touching his wrist or neck and he knows that this is more than just takeaway. He’d like to think that John knows this too.

Instead he says, “Did you get the duck sauce?”

John pauses and opens his mouth and then half a second later curses the word _fuck_. 

They still eat and watch terrible telly while Sherlock acts as the commentary and John laughs all night long. Duck sauce or not, Chinese takeaway at 221B Baker Street is always a perfect dinner.

\--

Sherlock’s composing three days later. John’s off from the clinic and he’s reading a discolored dog-eared book that requires too little of his attention. It’s a beautiful pattern of musical notes and story that takes John away from reality and it’s all a gift from the consulting detective. Everything is a gift from him actually - the dead body parts and cases and adventures and gunfire and laughter. Silly enough, he feels spoilt every day by Sherlock.

“What did you want the other night, John?”

John glances up, pulling away from the story and watches Sherlock. It doesn’t take him long before he smiles brightly and dives right back into his reading material. And once again, almost as if it comes with time, Sherlock is on a new case that’s got his wrapped up in the world of John Watson.

The doctor rivals his mind palace in size. And in beauty. But that’s just silly so he hides that data.

\--

Christmas Holiday season is approaching and John decorates the flat with Mrs. Hudson’s assistance. Sherlock will have nothing to do with it but at least he is good at playing holiday music on his violin. It almost feels as if it comes from his heart and John knows enough to assume that is the reality of it all. There are twinkle lights and a small tree as well as festive tinsel here and there with no direct pattern. He’s fond of the warm glow that the lights give the flat and he’s just as fond of Sherlock when the detective rests in his chair and enjoys the Christmas season.

“Are you lonely, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks and puts his violin down. He recalls a similar discussion just months ago at the staircase with John just after midnight. He didn’t answer then but he feels as if he should answer now.

“Not with you,” he says because it’s almost Christmas and around Christmas you should tell the truth, Mummy had said.

John smiles and stands. Sherlock does not tense as John invades his space. He’s shorter in stature and Sherlock gazes down to watch John’s movements. 

It doesn’t really matter who leans in first. 

There’s not really a reason to be lonely, at least with each other.


End file.
